If You Don't Have a Smile
by The DayDreaming
Summary: From "To Smile Through" Life was never easy for Cloud, nor was it really worth living. Sadly, his "protector" arrives on the day he decides to give up entirely. Now he finds himself housing the world's weirdest roommate: Yuffie, official guardian angel.
1. prologue

If You Don't Have a Smile

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NOTE!: Thanks to Kaikai PANTS for pointing this out! In order to understand what's happening in this prologue, and probably the next chapter, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND READING THE ONE-SHOT "TO SMILE THROUGH!" Though it's not completely necessary, especially since that one shot probably contains quite a few spoilers, it really will help with understanding what's going on. If you feel intimidated by the seemingly random loads of crap flying around in the first few chapters, just check out my profile to find that story, and things will probably be cleared up, somewhat. **

* * *

Warnings: Alternate universe. General confusion at the moment. Shortness because it's a prologue.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

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**PROLOGUE**

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_I never thought about it back then._

_I was young, inexperienced; my heart locked away from the world like an oyster's pearl. _

_And you. I wonder about you. Even now, when you're…well. I don't want to think about it._

A life for a life.

_You never told me what those words meant._

A flash of light. Mottled gray and gunmetal fire burst and in their wake there is but the notion of empty space, all vast precipices and silent vacuums.

_You breathed in me the notion that life goes on._

The stolen bullet chambered in a stolen gun seems strangely insignificant in comparison to the rest of the firearm fitted snuggly into his hand. But, it feels so heavy; his grip slips on the trigger while fumbling for the hammer.

_You taught me that. So, why aren't you here with me? Was I not good enough?_

She smiles. The luminous twist of lips is almost feral. She pulls at the nails embedded in her hands, as if they'll come out like pegs from a board.

_And yet…_

The gun, a black hole in its weight, falls and it doesn't break the silence so much as it shatters the last vestiges of reality smeared upon the blank canvas of his mind.

A life for a life.

A hole bleeds into existence where it once was not, centered on a smooth forehead; some falls in her eye and she tosses her head about to lighten the stream before it sidles into the cracks of her chapped lips.

_Back then, everything was easy. Like pulling a trigger, or the nails from your hands._

The rose, in full bloom and white as clouds and love and the innards of her smiles, rests idly in the palm of his hand, open and abundant in its pearly plumage. No matter how he tears at it, the petals heavy in his hands and littering the floor, it always grows again. He wishes it could bleed, like her and he; something to fall back upon in the wake of stolen familiarity.

_A life for a life._

She's rotting from the inside, falling apart at the seams. The stitching skittering across the expanse of her fingers is fraying and she's not quite sure what to do. She looks to him, as if he'll know.

Because he's supposed to, right?

"I'm dying."

"_I'm dying."_

_I wish that, as easily and well oiled as those words fell from your lips, you could have asked me to save you. Instead, you picked at a stray thread and smiled at me._

A flash of light; the mottled gunmetal gray spreads around her like a halo, the rot falling away as the ghost in the machine turns to ash.

The sight of a rose left behind in the fallout is empty and hollow.

_I wonder if I could have._

**A life for a life.**

She smiles. The world is alight and why has he never noticed that the left side is slightly crooked? But that doesn't matter right now, she's here she's here. The rain has never felt better as he reaches for her hands.

_Everything used to be so easy. What happened?_

The chain tightens around his throat as she tugs mercilessly, screaming and keening like an animal in its dying throes. Something's breaking and he doesn't know who.

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_It all began when you said, "Hello."_

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_

Here's something fast. More to come whenever I have the time.

This is obviously about Cloud and Yuffie. Totally**. If you're not sure what's going on** (neither totally am I) **reference back to my other fic, "To Smile Through," from which this story is very heavily based.** Also take note of the fact that events that weren't in italics, didn't necessarily happen in order. There are about three different story points cobbled together in this prologue. The real beginning comes next time.

Thanks for reading, and hope you guys enjoy this mini-series! :)


	2. goodbye sky

**If You Don't Have a Smile**

Warnings: Alternate universe. Attempted suicide.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

* * *

**End 1**: GOODBYE SKY

_

* * *

They say that the most prominent fear is death, the endless abyss. The fruition of our struggles. Our sleep eternal._

_Even if we, of the human spirit, do not realize it, our bodies do, continuing to trudge on against the forces of the world as our minds, constructed in fragile strands of electrical signals and ropes of rudimentary tissue, deteriorate within the ocean of vast despair which so encompasses our lives. _

_We must live, or, at least, that is what our beings tell us, even if our hearts cannot bear the growing weight of time._

* * *

He watches quietly from the floor as their receding backs slip away into the thinning crowd of students. Maybe he won't get up this time. It certainly seems easier than standing.

He licks his lip, tongue running over thin flaps of broken skin and lapping up the taste of blood-ridden saliva. It was worse this time. The side of his swollen temple pulses in time with each of his fragmented thoughts; a simple beat following a long and complicated drum solo.

**It. Hurts.**

**It. Hurts.**

**It. Hurts.**

The beating of a heart, and he wishes it would stop. The words seem to so little describe the aching of his being, his mind. There is nothing which can do so.

**It. Hurts.**

Maybe that knowledge is what hurts most of all.

Alone; there is no word that can describe how much it hurts to be alone. To be left behind. To be the one knocked down, with only his own hands to pull himself up.

Only general terms to define physical affliction.

**It. Hurts.**

He can't go on, he can't. It hurts too much. It's too much!

He can't do this. Why isn't anybody here? Isn't he calling for help? People always help others, so why not him?

**It. Hurts. I. Can't.**

He clings to the open door of his locker; pulls himself up; walks away.

**Can't. I…?**

_

* * *

Even as the mind wishes for it, the body instinctively fears that which it cannot comprehend. As a man drowns, does he not still try to breathe, even if breathing means certain death?_

_Breath is life. To breathe is to live. In order to keep beating, the heart requires oxygen, which, in turn, requires the lungs to "breathe," a process in which the body creates a vacuum in its chest in order to draw in air to the empty spaces, where tiny capillaries transfer oxygen to circulating blood that then transports this precious gas to the cells throughout the system._

_We are all wired the same way. We, as individuals, do not choose to breathe; the components of our beings decide whether we live or die; tissue and bone, blood and air. And these components always choose to live._

_Only when our bodies can no longer successfully complete the necessary circuit required in order to breathe, do we truly die by our bodies' consent. _

* * *

He enters the quiet abode in a rush of cool autumn air and solemn countenance. He stands there, fingernails slightly blue, for a minute, deciding whether the trek into the kitchen is worth the benefits of a pack of ice to his bruised forehead, and maybe some ice cream to sooth the bitten insides of his cheeks and tongue.

No. Perhaps not.

He bypasses the open entrance and instead trudges up the stairs to his stark and bare room, merely to fold into himself as he falls to the bed; the white sheets mold into a rumpled nest, but retain no warmth in their outer reaches.

"Is this…," he begins, "Is this…"

He curls in tighter on himself, trying to squeeze out the words where his vocal chords cannot.

**All I have to look forward to?**

He feels the urge to hold something, to squeeze and scream, or maybe sob. But, no one is there; no one can possibly be there. He wants to call out to his mother, let the mollifying syllables fall from his shaking lips, but the words catch in the back of his throat; she's gone, to work, or maybe the next boyfriend, to fill in the empty spaces that his father has left behind.

He can't go on, he can't. It hurts too much to live.

"If this is living," he licks his lips, "If this is living, then…"

**Then…**

He pulls himself up; stands; walks away.

_

* * *

But, we all die. We, as individuals, know this, or come to know this; the body, on the other hand, proceeds forward unwaveringly, unaware of its ultimate goal to shuffle off the winding mortal coil._

_Is it impossible, then, for we as individuals to choose our own deaths?_

* * *

He walks.

For how long, he can't remember, but all he knows is that, when he stops, his feet ache and his knees wobble in the chill of a September afternoon.

The old church seems like a good enough place, even though its abandoned interior is falling apart. He looks up and observes a slip of cloud against a bright, cornflower blue sky beyond the ragged edges of a broken rafter.

He breathes in, holds the breath while savoring its cold burn; then, lets it out.

The rusting, metal cross slung against the back wall looms over him as he approaches. His eyes avert at the sight; he's not particularly religious, has never been, really, but somehow looking at the colossus almost…hurts.

He looks back to the sky. He wonders if he'll miss it.

The stolen bullet chambered in a stolen gun seems strangely insignificant in comparison to the rest of the firearm fitted snuggly into his hand. But, it feels so heavy; his grip slips on the trigger while fumbling for the hammer.

He holds the end of the barrel to his head, nuzzling aside his obtrusive bangs.

"The sky…," he mumbles.

His father had always said that he held the world in his eyes. Not now, though. They're empty, just like the rest of him.

"NO!"

The trigger is pulled.

_

* * *

No. Of course not._

_Just as we fear death, so do we fear living. _

* * *

The gun, a black hole in its weight, falls and it doesn't break the silence so much as it shatters the last vestiges of reality smeared upon the blank canvas of his mind.

The tail end of an explosion is still echoing throughout the molding rafters, and his ears resonate to the pulse of his heart,

Beating,

Beating,

Beating.

His eyes lock onto the motionless figure laid along the cross, languishing on the thick nails embedded into the thin hands and crossed feet, before trailing to the face, the open forehead, where a patch of watery sunlight falls.

Dead.

**It's dead.**

That's all he can think as he observes the quick descent of a scarlet curtain from a small, perfectly round hole.

**I'm not.**

He takes it in, the figure of a girl dressed in white, the front of the dress staining an irreparable red.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement. One of the lifeless fingers twitches.

He runs, and this time, he doesn't stop; not until he gets home, and heaves up whatever's left in his stomach.

**I'm alive.**

_

* * *

To live is to fear. _

_To live is to die._

_But, you took my hand, threw away all of my ideals and beliefs and replaced them._

_You said to me, "Let's survive."_

* * *

Here you guys go! Hope this wasn't too bad for you all. I'm not so good at angst. Also, sorry for all of the philosophic crap in this chapter. All chapters will have a bit of introspection, hopefully (I hope I can sound smart! Please, let me sound smart!), which is what the italics bits are. I'm trying to experiment with first person POV, so sorry.

Also, the introspection won't be so long (usually), and, unfortunately, the chapters probably won't be so long either. Remember when I mentioned in the last chapter that this would be a mini-series? Yeah, short chapters, but hopefully frequent updates. These are actually really easy to write in about four hours. We'll see. :)

Thanks to Filipina Shortaay for reviewing!


	3. dead run

**If You Don't Have a Smile**

Warnings: Alternate universe. Gory depictions. Dead girls. Confusion?

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

**

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End 2**: DEAD RUN

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* * *

Irrationality._

_The human mind thrives on the documented processes upon which it has become accustomed. What it cannot comprehend, it pushes aside._

_In other words, the natural human condition is to run._

* * *

The sky isn't blue today, at least, not under all of the heavy cloud cover. Instead, the unappealing splendor of a green sheet of cumulonimbus and rust-red cirrostratus hangs over his head like the cloying breath of a monstrous beast.

It sickens him, but he heads out of the house anyways; if he skipped another day of school, his mom would become suspicious.

It's been three days since that time. Since that Thursday that he tried to…to…

He can't bring himself to think beyond that. He had felt ill for hours afterwards, enough for even his mother to have noticed, exhausted as she was after a difficult day at work; she had called the school for him, to excuse his absence for the next day, and kindly turned a blind eye to the swelling on his temple, his split lip, and the bruises on his arms.

Even thinking about that time turns his stomach; but, despite his trauma, his dreams are filled with strange things. Flowers on a hill; a sword, rusted and stained, wedged into the ground; a glass of water; a seed growing into a sprout.

Most strangely of all are the very ends of the dreams. Always the same; a swallow sitting on a fence post. It screams and screams, feathers flying away as it thrashes about, but, the bird never moves from its place. He walks towards it, always the same, slow pace, and, as he nears, he notices thin chains binding the bird in place. Just as he reaches the fence, the swallow spins and lunges at him, and he lurches backwards, falling into darkness.

That's when he wakes up.

A low roar breaks into his reverie, and with a start he realizes that the green clouds overhead have darkened to a toxic green. He rushes to school, trying to think of nothing as the sky closes in.

_

* * *

I've always run from things. Whenever my father had to leave, and he tried to explain to me why, I couldn't understand. I would cry, or get angry and yell at him, before I would run away and hide in my closet._

_I would never say goodbye to him; I was afraid._

_When you say goodbye to something, that means you're saying it's okay for it to go away._

_That it's okay, if it never comes back._

_Right?_

* * *

There are sirens in the distance.

They singe their way into his brain, a wailing scream that thrums in his chest and counteracts the beating of his heart.

"Invaders!" the teacher yells. The students around him stiffen and begin to cry out, shoving desks and each other out of the way as they scuttle towards the door.

He remains seated as the teacher tries to herd the over-reactive teens into some semblance of order, but inevitably fails as the last fall out of the door in a dead scramble. The teacher follows suit, not looking back.

Invaders.

Vermin of the earth, though the term 'invader' can be used interchangeably with a volley of beasts that plague the surrounding lands of the city.

They're all running for a safe house, though the facilities in the school aren't big enough to hold them all, as old as the place is, and as new as the idea of safety facilities for invasions are. It's best to let them run around a bit before moving. There's no place for him, anyways.

The monsters never usually come this far anyways; most of the time, he coops himself up in a classroom until the sirens die down, then, he runs for home, hoping that no strays are about. He's only ever seen an invader once; it had its head stuck in the carcass of someone's unfortunate golden retriever, and he'd snuck by, footsteps concealed by the grinding and squelching of teeth.

That type had merely been a monster, common for the area; the other types of invaders, on the other hand, were much worse. Creatures of darkness and magic, impossible to kill without some sort of specially-made weapon.

As he moves from his desk, a flash of movement catches the corner of his eye, and for an instant, the memory of an index finger trembling to life enraptures his mind, before rationality sets in and he recognizes the dark form as something entirely non-human. He hears the breaking of glass a couple rooms over, and knows that he doesn't have much time to flee. A scream confirms this thought, and he quickly runs to the windows opposite him, glancing about to ensure that the coast is clear, before cracking open the stiff locks along the gilded panes, almost welded shut with heat and dust. He takes one more cursory look before leaping out, feet catching in the roots of a tall tree.

He has to run. The sirens aren't letting up, and now that he thinks about it, they're getting louder, indicating that the breach is extending over to their section of the city. He tries to ignore the blatant gouges on the wall a few windows down, and begins a desperate flight.

_

* * *

The human brain is a strange thing, creating reason where there is none, and invoking fear and misunderstandings where it shouldn't._

_I've always run, whether it be from my father or my problems. Ignore what you can't understand, and it doesn't exist. Ignore what you don't want to believe, and it no longer applies to your logic in the world._

_Whatever it is, it's just a bad dream. _

* * *

Home is this way.

That's all he thinks, breathes, as he moves through the abandoned streets, alarms ringing in his ears.

As he rounds a corner, his mind grinds to a halt. Slinking across the street is the limping form of a shadow creature, long arms dragging on the ground as its antennae wriggle in the air. He scrambles back as its head whips around, and he listens for the scritch-scritch of its terrible black talons on the ground.

He can vaguely make out the noise, and doesn't linger to reflect on whether or not it's following him, although he's sure it is.

He runs as fast as he can through the streets, veering away from roads infested with clusters of vagrant shadows.

He falls, hands tearing along the pavement; he ignores the stinging pain of dust embedded within his flesh and climbs to his feet.

_

* * *

Just a bad dream._

* * *

Before he realizes it, he's made it to the old park; rusted metal climbing cages and dilapidated swings fill his vision. The area is abandoned, but it still isn't safe. He makes his way to the back of park, where the deserted church rises up from a stumpy little hill.

He shivers as he passes through the door, the green of the sky casting an acidic glow through the holes in the roof. He moves forward, trying to block out the images of three days prior.

Placing his boot down, he discerns a metallic crunch, only to find the spent shell of a bullet underfoot. Breath quickening, he stumbles back, shoe catching on a loose floor board and bringing him to his knees.

He fumbles, hands pushing out, only to catch hold of the butt of a gun. He almost wants to kick it away, but thinks better of it and grasps the cold metal in a tight grip, eyes traveling the room and resting on the cross overhead.

She was still there.

Though now, he can see the loose folds of parched epidermis and weathered limbs. Her skin is peeling away, dress stained a disgusting yellow and brown, enhanced by the poor lighting. A crow is perched at her shoulder; at the sound of his commotion, it had lifted its head. Examining him for a few seconds, it screeches and then turns away, resuming pecking at the growing hole in the girl's left cheek.

He can't hold back, and immediately retches at the sight.

_

* * *

That's all this is, right?_

* * *

He can't stop himself from looking again when he's finished, up at the unholy sight before him.

"This is a dream," he stutters, "I'm dreaming!"

The sirens, the shadows, the crucified corpse.

"Just a bad dream! I'm dreaming; it's a dream! I'm dreaming right now, and I need to get up any minute to go to school!"

**I'll dream of a swallow on a fence any second now.**

"A dream…," he closes his eyes.

_

* * *

Wake up! Please, wake up!_

_I can't run anymore…_

* * *

"That, or a nightmare."

The words don't belong to him.

He snaps his eyes open to the sight of a smiling corpse, half its face eaten away. The crow screeches and flutters to the rafters.

"Good morning, emo kid! I thought you'd never come back," the corpse grins, browning teeth prominent. Her skin is flaking away in sheets, grimy hair falling out. The tissue in her cheek begins to thread itself together. The hole in her forehead begins to run anew with a sludgy flow of blood, slowly turning red once more.

On instinct, he raises the pistol in his hands and takes shaky aim at the corpse.

She smirks at the sight, "Boo."

The pulling of the trigger is met with the sound of disappointing clicks. "It's empty, chocobo-brain," she lets out an obnoxious laugh.

He throws the gun aside, and stands up, "Who are you?"

"Who, me?" she asks; he takes in the fact that her skin has stopped shedding. It looks completely new, pink and raw like a baby. She grins again, incisors and canines gleaming like silver. He glances further up, only to find the absence of the hole and steady stream of blood.

"Mmm, I guess you could say…," she smiles. The luminous twist of lips is almost feral. She pulls at the nails embedded in her hands, as if they'll come out like pegs from a board, "Later. Do ya mind being useful for a sec and taking these out?"

"Who are you?" he tries again. The girl, all blemishes completely gone, though dress still irreparably stained, shakes her head and tugs on her restraints pointedly.

He thinks of running away, fleeing through the closed double-doors; the muffled sound of sirens halts that idea faster than he can complete it.

"Get a ladder. Over there, in the corner," she says, and he finds himself willing to follow the instructions of a zombie-girl over chancing it with the shadow monsters on the prowl outside.

He grabs it, gnawing on his lips slightly and peeling the small sliver of scab in the middle. He hauls the creaky contraption over to the cross and rests the legs at its base, before hesitantly climbing up to the top step, which rests roughly against the girl's waist. He ignores her grunts as the wood digs into her abdomen, and instead swallows the slight dizzy feeling he gets as he snags a whiff of the girl's dress.

It smells of rotting meat and blood.

_

* * *

A dream?_

* * *

"Just pull 'em out, already!" she chastises him, and he almost falls off the ladder with the realization that he's staring very heatedly at her chest. He stretches as much as he dares on the moldy, rough wood of the ladder, managing to snag the thick head of a nail.

It comes out easier than he thought, sliding away like butter and almost sending him off the ladder again. He shudders at the sight of red tissue clinging to the shaft; tosses it away into a dark corner.

The girl allows her hand to fall limp, groaning at the absence of support. He quickly pulls the nail in her other hand out. With nothing holding her up, she quickly wraps her arms around his back, shoving his face into the lacy, yellowed frills of her dress; he blanches at the feeling of free-flowing blood seeping through his shirt.

Finally, he reaches down and gropes for the nail pinning her feet together and grunting as it too is pulled out and thrown away into the dark corner. Full weight of the girl upon him, he barely recognizes the sensation of falling before his back hits the floor and the dead body of his passenger assails him.

He grits his teeth and shoves her away, the girl gurgling as she rolls aside, head resting at an odd angle. She stops moving after a pathetic whine, and seems to completely still, almost looking dead again.

He backs away, glancing at the sight of the scattered pieces of ladder and wondering how he hasn't broken his neck.

"Hey, dumbass," the gurgled call startles him into looking over. Zombie-girl hasn't moved from her place, "Move my head, idiot."

He almost doesn't do it, but after a moment of hesitation, crawls over and rolls the limp body into a supine position. He almost doesn't recognize it, but the way the head lolls limply backwards as he handles her gives away the fact that her neck is broken in half, and, upon further inspection, he realizes that her skull is cracked like an egg and seeping blood into the plaid pattern of his uniform pants.

Her eyes open and look up at him. In the dim green light of the sky, her gaze almost seems to glow.

"Surprised?" she sputters, grinning up.

"What are you?" he asks in return, watching as the vertebrae in her neck realign.

_

* * *

Perhaps it is a dream. Perhaps it isn't._

_The mind must rationalize in order to function. Our perception is based upon the reality we have created for ourselves._

_But, what happens when we can't rationalize?_

* * *

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

_

* * *

Fear?_

* * *

"I don't care. Tell me!"

_

* * *

Hate?_

* * *

"I am…"

_

* * *

What do we do when the reality we once relied upon so heavily falls apart at the seams?_

* * *

"An angel."

_

* * *

I can't tell you. No one can._

_The only thing I can say is that…_

_Despite my past, despite my basest instincts…_

* * *

She grinned nervously, "Hello."

_

* * *

For the first time in my life_

_I didn't run._

* * *

Whoo, boy! What a chapter! I seriously didn't mean for it to be this long. I just couldn't seem to find a good stopping place, and I wanted to get this part over with. Hopefully, some things in the prologue are starting to make sense.

You'll also notice a plot element not introduced in the one-shot "To Smile Through." I think every KH story at least requires mention of the heartless. Somehow though, I always seem to make my heartless intros really creepy. Sorry guys! Hope this story isn't too gory for its rating! Also, I hope it isn't too choppy, I'm having a bit of trouble with the writing style. Please inform me of whether or not I should try something different with the style. It'll start to shift in the next few chapters.

**Also, I feel I should point out why Cloud is so, well, wimpy. He'll get better, I promise. I just think, without all the loads of crap he went through in KH (and FF7) he'd be more like this. You should've seen him in Crisis Core. An old, fat guy knocked him across the room. He got motion sickness. He's pale as a sheet and as sweet and soft-spoken as a girl. But he does have his tough moments, like when he gets stabbed in the chest and then manages to knock Seph into a wall, take the sword out, then stumble over to Zack. It's the most hilarious thing. I'm trying to pull more from that personality, scared and brave all rolled into one, although it'll shift over time into, well…I really don't know. High ho compulsory plot and character development! **

Thanks to Filipina Shortaay and Kaikai PANTS for reviewing! You guys must be sent from the gods, seriously. Reading your reviews always makes me smile and feel like writing more.


	4. jumble tilt

**If You Don't Have a Smile**

Warnings: Alternate universe. Language (Seriously? Welcome to fanfiction dot net! Stories rated PG have cussing in it!). General crackiness. Much ado about nothing?

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

**

* * *

End 3**: JUMBLE TILT

_

* * *

The world is incomprehensible._

_Beyond the boundaries of our minds lies a cavernous void, the likes of which we cannot comprehend, merely for the fact that our capacity to understand the abstract falls far below the actual expanse of the metaphorical universe._

* * *

How does it come to this?

He isn't sure, but staring at the slightly disgusting sight of a girl wolfing down his entire supply of pudding while making pornographic-quality moans of delight doesn't seem to be helping the thinking process.

He tries to ignore it, instead focusing on the wilting daisy in a dinky vase by the kitchen window. Patients were always giving his mother flowers of some sort. Little kids, mostly, with bouquets tattered and shorn away by their constant abuse from tiny, fidgeting hands; they must have thought being nice to the blonde doctor-lady would get them out of the hospital faster, or maybe have her change her diagnosis from terminal to common cold. Often-times he found the things in the trash, but, occasionally, he'd observe a daffodil or some lilies clipped short and precariously balanced in the chipped, blue test-tube of a vase, dripping water from a hairline crack in the side.

"That's a pretty crappy-looking flower ya got there, Spikey," the girl quips, smacking a dented container of banana pudding onto the scarred tabletop, only to replace it with a cup of raspberry-chocolate and mint.

"Whatever," he mumbles, turning away from the pathetic figure. He crosses his arms and resumes staring in a sort of horrified fascination at the amount of pudding he hadn't realized his mother had stocked in the kitchen.

"Gawd, are you a broken record or somethin'?" she whines, all the while tearing eagerly at the foil lid of the unfortunate treat, "Ever since we got back it's been 'whatever' this, and 'whatever' that! Hey, look, a distraction! 'Whatever.' Oh my gosh, rape! 'Whatever.' Sweet moogle pompoms, there's Elvis! 'What-the-frick-ever!'"

He shifts around uncomfortably, half so because he's painfully aware of the fact that he isn't the most expressive of individuals (the term apathetic floats at the edges of his mind); and half because she is spewing globs of liquidated pudding towards his general direction.

His response to her claim would usually be met with a resounding 'whatever,' but for the sake of salvaging his dignity, he opts to leave the suddenly claustrophobic kitchen, shoving past the rickety kitchen table without preamble.

The girl sputters (consequently firing more pudding onto the floor), before snagging as many pudding cups as she can carry in her arms and hightailing it into the living room, where he has made himself comfortable on a recliner near a window. The putrid green of the sky is slowly ebbing into twilight, a multi-colored affair with strings of neon blue and orange coupled by small pearls of pink cotton.

She tosses the pudding onto a coffee table placed in front of a couch near where he's sitting, several skittering across the scratched glass only to meet the floor when their slippery track ends. She follows this by flopping onto the couch, the hinges moaning at the rough landing.

"Jeez, this place is really old. Everything's all creaky and stuff," this complaint is met with a stony silence from him, and the air tenses as he hardens his gaze at the window. He can see the outlines of his reflection in the large pane, and a blurry portrait of the girl using his couch as though it were her own throne.

_

* * *

But, can anyone really say they fully understand the universe? It's vast and dark; all knowledge and light consumed by distance and time, culture bled away into history only to return as merely a piece of an ever expanding whole._

_Don't we know everything until we learn something new?_

* * *

"Heeey, is there something interesting out there?" the girl draws a pudding cup towards her prone form, tearing the lid halfway off before glancing at the spoon held loosely in her grip. With a shrug, she tosses it with a wince-worthy clatter onto the table and proceeds to drink instead, tipping the container back like hard liquor.

"Are you ignoring me?" she tries again, a dollop of pudding resting like a squat beetle on her nose.

He chooses to say nothing and instead turns his face fully away from the window to intensely glare at a painting on the wall.

When he continues on with the unnerving silence, she finally catches the hint that something might be wrong. She gazes forlornly at the pudding on the table before hoisting herself up and walking over to stand behind him.

She gives his shoulder a definitive poke and asks, surprisingly quiet, "Hey, are you angry with me?"

He snaps and slaps her hand away, reeling up in his chair.

"Jerk!" she shoves him back, accidentally cracking his head against the wall, "Oops."

"Dammit," he growls, standing and rubbing his aching head, checking to make sure there isn't any blood. There is a dent in the wall.

He whips around and glares at her, "What the hell is your problem?"

She returns his glare, raising herself up on her toes in order to try and match his considerable (at least compared to her) height, "Same thing, buddy! What the hell is up with you? You're acting like some moody girl!"

"Could it be the nuisance standing in front of me, I wonder?" he barks back, and in his mind he's a bit startled by his attitude. He never yells like this, showing his frustration outwardly and so unrestrained, not even to the 'bullies' at school, "What the hell are you on, thinking you can just waltz in here and act like everything is frickin' okay?"

"Frickin'?" the girl murmurs out.

"Shut up!" the girl looks like she is about to protest, but he charges onward, "What right do you have to be here, telling me what to do? You were DEAD just a couple hours ago! You stalked me home! You went through my fridge!"

He grabs his head in frustration, "Why am I even thinking about that? Let's focus on the fact that you ROSE from the DEAD! Who does that?"

"The great ninja Yuffie, of course!" she says it with such a chipper smile that he's stopped in his tracks, the jumble of questions about to be asked falling from his lips in an ungraceful 'guh.'

"W-what?" he stutters.

Her eyes light up, and suddenly she's five feet away from him, posing like some wannabe superhero with her fist on her hip and her other hand pointing high to the sky, "I am the GREAT ninja, YUFFIE!"

Yuffie chances a glance to her audience, only to find him wearing an expression that could compete with a rock.

"Bow at my feet…?" she finishes.

"You're crazy," he finally says, after the silence stretches on for longer than a minute, "No, wait. I'm crazy. Yeah. This, this whole thing is just some crazy delusion. I'm lying in a coma somewhere and this is just some morphine-induced dream."

"Aw, no, sorry emo-boy!" she smiles and skips over to him, poking his forehead, "As much fun as it would be to see you go sit in a corner and write angsty poetry with blood from your slit wrists, it's my job to inform you that you are not, in fact, crazier than any other person around here. You're actually probably saner than most. Maybe."

_

* * *

This can't be real._

_It shouldn't be._

_But it is._

* * *

He smacks her hand away, glaring at her and stepping back from her close proximity, "Fine. Let's pretend that you're real for a second. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Want from you?" she looks confused for a second, "I don't want anything from you. Okay, maybe some extortion, but really, I'm here FOR you!"

He raises his eyebrow, waiting for her to get to her point.

"Nothing? No? Okay, let's put it in simple words for the little brainiac over there," she rests her hands on her hips again and takes a deep breath, puffing herself up as though trying to look more regal or convincing, "You know how earlier I said that I was an angel?"

He nods, "Yes. I promptly ignored you, because that's impossible."

"Yeah, well, I used to thinks so, too. But, here's an update Spikey: It's true. There is something that comes after death. There are people, angels, watching over the worlds, I-I mean, world. And even if it doesn't seem like it, we are there, trying to help," Yuffie takes another deep breath.

"The deal is, I've been assigned to be your protector, or well, uh, something like that."

"So you're saying you're my…'guardian angel?'" he asks, eyes and voice disbelieving.

"Yup, pretty much," she scratches her head feeling awkward, "So, uh, you're kinda stuck with me. For like, as long as it takes, which is I don't know how long."

_

* * *

I didn't want to believe you, and yet, at the same time, I did._

_For me, the universe had just upended itself._

* * *

"This isn't real. I'm going to wake up eventually," he says with conviction.

"Yeah, yeah. Just keep believing that. Whatever confirms your existence and makes you feel more like a man. Jeez, crazy teenagers," she sticks her finger in her ear before wiping it on her dress, "Anyways, so where am I sleeping?"

"S-sleeping?" he blinks at her unbelievingly, "No. Just no. You can't stay here."

"Think again, Spikey. I ain't got nowhere to go!" she looks at him, widening her eyes and pouting, though she resembles more a fish than something to be pitied, "You wouldn't leave poor, little ol' me to fend for myself. Out there, with the…monsters?" she's proud that she manages to well up a tear in her eye.

He grimaces, "No. There's no room. No way."

"Pleeease?" she widens her eyes until they're practically bulging.

"I mean it: there are no rooms. There are only two rooms to sleep in, and you can't be on the couch. I don't know if mom would even allow this!"

"Awww, poor emo-boy has to check with his mommy to make sure a giiirl can stay in the house?" she laughs obnoxiously; he can feel the pinch of an ever-growing headache coming on.

"N-no, it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

His eye twitches, "Where would you stay? There's no place for you here!"

"Well, I'm your 'guardian angel,' Spikey," she returns her face to normal and grins, "I'll stay with you."

And as illogical as it is, he can't bring himself to turn her away.

"You're not sleeping in the same bed as me."

"Then it's the floor for you!"

"Think again."

She backs off, "Fine, sheesh. Spoilsport."

_

* * *

If I had known what would happen when a little part of the universe had unlocked its secrets to me, would I have really accepted you?_

_Could things have turned out differently?_

* * *

They're walking upstairs when she turns around and almost knocks him over in her haste.

"I almost forgot," she starts, "Uh…"

"What?" he growls out, still not entirely content with the thought of this girl being in the same room as him, and trying to show it wholeheartedly.

She smiles sheepishly, "What's your name?"

He can't quite keep himself from slamming his head into the wall.

_

* * *

My name is Cloud Strife._

_I used to be a loser, with parents who were never there, below-average grades, and an abysmal opinion on life and the human race in general._

_It's not so different now: I'm still a loser, my mom is still never there, school's a living hell, and I still think the world is a shitty place._

_But… well, now I'm a kid trying to build a barricade around his bed while his new, crazy, and totally-a-halluciantion roommate/stalker is building a nest in his closet, making his clothes smell like death rolled over._

_Now that I think about it, the universe can keep its secrets. In fact, if this is the result of learning, the universe can go fuck itself._

* * *

Done! Uh, sorry about the crappy chapter guys. You know this had to get out of the way. Now that Yuffie is officially here, things just keep getting more crack-tastic. Which is kind of a nice break from all the Cloud angst from the previous chapters, even if it's only me who appreciates it.

Sorry for it being so rough, I just couldn't seem to pull anything out right. I'm no good at confrontation chapters, sorry! And I hope they're in character; kinda just feeling around, since this AU is really weird and characterization has to go all over the place for things to move along. Hope everything is making sense, too…Consistency is key, but it's also a bitch, and keeping everyone in the dark is actually hard. As is remembering that I'm writing this story in present tense.

Yeah. So. Thanks to Kaikai PANTS, Anna-Sky Valentine Nox, and Filipina Shortaay for reviewing! You guys really make me blush. Hope this chapter didn't disappoint. :)

I don't know how long the next chap. Will take, since I'm kinda lost on what to do from here. Uh, regroup and think out a plan!


	5. down limbo

**If You Don't Have a Smile**

Warnings: Alternate universe. Slight language. Uh, angst, I guess. Bit of a weird psychological moment towards the end, so expect some brain pain.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

**

* * *

End 4**: DOWN LIMBO

* * *

_I feel different today._

_Nothing's really changed, as far as I can tell, but still…_

_It's a nice feeling._

* * *

He wakes up the same as ever, shrill trilling of the alarm clock at his bedside table a familiar invader upon his sleep.

But really, it's not so much awakening as it is dreaming while sitting up in bed; then dreaming while walking; then dreaming while crashing into a wall.

All things considered, it could have been worse, he decides. He picks himself up off the floor and trudges over to the tiny bathroom built into the side of his room, the old, worn carpet catching the callouses on the bottoms of his feet.

Quickly going about his morning routine, he exits back into his room, only to stop dead at the sight of a bundle of sheets emitting something that sounds like a cross between a growl and a snort every few seconds. He knows what lies under the sheets; some strange hallucination that he's been suffering from for the last few days, _that just won't go away_.

He thought that by accommodating the creature it would disappear, back into the recesses of his mind to come about again when he was old and grey and a bit more than half-way to crazy anyways. He bites back a sigh of resignation and trudges over to the bundle of cloth, examining the strange ball that the supposed angel had curled herself into. A lock of raven-black hair peaks out from under a rumpled fold, and a stray foot sticks out directly opposite of it.

Without hesitation, he kicks the side of the ball. When the ball only flutters briefly back and forth, he kicks again and sends it crashing into the mirrored closet door, earning a pained grunt and what sounds like the slurred mutterings of a sailor.

Obstruction taken care of, he rifles through his closet, and procures a short-sleeved white dress-shirt and blue, plaid-patterned pants.

He cautiously sniffs the material as he walks away from the closet, detecting faint hints of rotten meat among the fresh scent of detergent. It's disgusting, and he honestly considers just going in some casual clothing from his dresser drawer. Then again, it would be too conspicuous. He throws the clothes on his bed and searches around before resting his eyes on a bottle of air freshener. It's probably entirely wrong to do so, but he sprays a copious amount of 'spring rain-scented' chemicals onto the clothes and prays that it'll hide the odor of death that his unwanted guest has unintentionally spread to his garments.

Satisfied, he dons the slightly damp articles and begins to head out the door when he hears a commotion and the annoying squawking of Yuffie. He turns to see her attempting to extricate herself from the tangled cocoon of bedding.

"Wait," she says, kicking her leg spastically, "Where ya going?"

"None of your concern," he mumbles before he exits the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He trudges down the stairs and makes it to the threshold of his kitchen when Yuffie manages to catch up, throwing his bedroom door closed with more force than necessary and sliding down the banister like a professional surfer.

"Oh, but it is, Cloudie!" she admonishes, brushing past him; he catches a whiff of her dress and has to cringe.

He continues into the suddenly crowded room and edges around the table, heading for the coffee percolator, "Hey Cloud, where's the syrup?"

He merely grunts and raises an eyebrow questioningly, before turning his full attention to the cold pot of coffee, left by his mother in her early rush to work, left on the stand.

"Eh? Oh, nevermind. Found it!"

He grabs a mug from the overhead cupboard and reaches for the pot at the same time, actions so ingrained that they're thoughtless to his numb mind. He turns away from the coffee machine, only to be met with the sight of Yuffie, along with a stack of crackers, an apple, a jar of orange jelly, and the aforementioned bottle of syrup, all arranged in a messy line-up at the table. Yuffie is eagerly alternating between spooning heapfuls of jelly over the tops of several crackers and pouring a river of syrup across the expanse of a chipped plate (one which he sure wasn't in that condition before).

"Uh…," he tries, but is quickly interrupted.

"If you're gonna ask me to share, then no way, Chocobo-head! This is mine, so you can't have any!" she punctuates the end of her sentence with a decisive squeeze of the syrup bottle.

"I wouldn't want any, anyways…" he looks away, face stony. At the sound of her chewing, he turns back, and has to ask, "Is that all you're going to eat?"

She looks at him quizzically, scrunching her eyes slightly, a string of syrup-coated jelly smeared along her neckline, "Well, duh!"

"But it's junk."

"It is not!" she looks shocked and quickly swipes her finger through the pool of slop on her plate, "This is totally a balanced breakfast! See? There's bread, and, uh, jelly's a fruit, right? And, uhm, vegetables. 'Cause syrup comes from trees."

He isn't quite sure what to say to that, and instead eyes the apple, "And…that?"

"I gotta keep my awesomely slim figure, y'know?"

He sighs and turns away fully, intending to grab some bread (he'd toast it, but the thought of spending any more time around this lunatic is enough to deter even his most stalwart resolve) and vacating the premises.

Yuffie watches from the table, licking her fingers and dipping more crackers into the remains of her breakfast-concoction, "So, uh, what's happening today, papa-bear?"

He flinches at the name, but otherwise ignores her, spinning the bread bag closed and cinching the tie-wrap around the twisted plastic tightly.

"Heeeeey." Sigh. "Hey. Hey!"

He turns to leave, exit choreographed to a cacophony of 'hey's.' Yuffie moves after him, chasing him to the foyer where he's putting on a pair of worn loafers.

"Where are you going?" she asks, toeing a scratched leather high-heel into the middle of the hall.

"I'm going to school, what does it look like?" he says gruffly, grabbing the displaced shoe and shoving it back into place.

"So not cool. Can't you skip?"

"No," he answers flatly and stands up. He peeks through the window imbedded in the door and observes the presence of pink clouds in a slowly reddening sky. It'll be good weather today, then, and a low chance of invasion.

He opens the door to step out, but stiffens as he hears Yuffie move to do the same.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.

"Uh, going to school, dummy," she replies, shoving past him, but then yelping out a strangled 'hey!' as he drags her back in roughly by the elbow, "What the hell's your problem?"

"You are not going to school with me," he says, and pushes her to the edge of the hall with a shove to her shoulders.

"But—"

"No! Stop following me!"

She tenses and puffs out her cheeks, looking indignant, "Follow you? That's my job, idiot!"

"I don't need you! Whatever made you think that I did was obviously wrong!"

She opens her mouth to retort, features twisted into rage and something behind her eyes that he can't quite read, but it seems she can't bring herself to voice her objections and instead only manages to choke out, "Jerk! You're such a jerk!"

The weak protest does nothing to him and he merely snorts at the poor attempt, "And you're just a pest. Just…," he hesitates and looks away from her, "Just stop. Go home to wherever the hell you live and stop bothering me. I don't know how you did the things you did yesterday, but it was obviously a trick. I'm done with you, now get out."

Yuffie's face takes on a livid red hue, fists clenched harshly to her sides and knuckles bent to bone-white extremes.

She looks at him with hatred, "Maybe there's a reason you're alone."

She shoves past him in the small foyer and throws the door open, leaving in her wake the glory of a clear morning.

_

* * *

Yes, the same as always. _

_Nothing ever changes. _

_The span of a human life is merely a drop in the bucket. In order to even register on the scale of the world, the universe, millions and billions of years have to pass. What seems an unfathomable amount of time to us is merely a blink in the views of the infinite and ever-expanding scale of time. _

_For all that we put meaning into our lives, we never do truly realize how pointless everything is. Will the woes of a cheating house-wife or the life-dedication a man has to saving others' lives be remembered one million years from now? Will it have changed the universe?_

_We are nothing in the grand scheme of things. No one is remarkable enough except for a select few to even register within the loose and disjointed hivemind that comprises the human race._

_If this is true, then what's the point in living?_

* * *

Class today seems strangely quiet. A couple of students are missing, and he can hear the whispers of his peers as the rumors begin to form about where they could be.

It doesn't matter to him; if they were stupid enough to allow themselves to be caught by those things, then maybe they deserve whatever happened.

The bell rings, hammering into his head like a nail. He gathers his books automatically and looks around, only to see everyone coalescing into groups which then form a herd at the door.

**Disgusting.**

He waits for them to press through, then heads out himself, ignoring the teacher's call of 'goodbye.'

**They're all so disgusting.**

He walks through the halls, slowly clearing of students as they head home.

**They're a waste of skin. Pathetic little bugs scurrying around without purpose.**

He makes it to his locker, dropping his bag to the ground as he reaches forward to fiddle with the lock. The lock, old and abused, takes a couple tries before releasing. He reaches inside to take out some papers when the locker door violently shuts, rusty metal cutting violently into his skin and pressing forward like a sledgehammer against the bones of his forearm.

"Hey, Strife."

_

* * *

Is it wrong of me to hate others for the fact that the lives they think are so important, so much more consequential than mine, are merely disgusting lies impressed upon them by society?_

_I can see them for what they really are. Worthless. Trash. Do they honestly think the universe gives a shit about them?_

_We're all the same in the end. We're all just bags of meat and bones tied together by electrical signals._

_Everyone dies. _

_We'll live and die, and no one will ever care because we're only inconsequential years within the span of millions of millennia._

* * *

As his head is slammed into a locker and the sharp loop of a lock-hole digs into his eyelid, Cloud goes someplace else.

He pretends he's under his bed, hidden in the cool darkness; just like a little kid staring up at the wooden beams supporting his bed. He sees a spider and then it shifts to a circus that his father took him to once.

He's balancing on a tightrope and he can see his father at the end of the line, waiting for him. He looks blurry, like an old brown photograph, but it's enough to spur him forward, only to step off of a bus and get out his umbrella, one of the tines broken but still manageable.

The bus rolls away and he's left to stand in a puddle, staring down at his reflection in the grey flagstones. He looks harder, tries to see himself, and finds the glass of water sweating beads of moisture a little too distracting. He pushes it away to see the window more clearly, observing the presence of pink clouds in a slowly reddening sky. It'll be good weather today, then, and a low chance of invasion.

He looks harder to see the cross, riddled with bullet holes. There's something missing, he's sure, and then he catches sight of his father's name and dates scrolling underneath, medals and honors littering the stone like tacky décor.

But god, Yuffie won't stop touching him and it's enough to make him reach out for the flower of a small child. It looks ugly, better throw it away. The vase is bleeding again.

He honestly doesn't know why he keeps saving it, gluing it back together time and again. Nothing ever lasts. He takes some tape, tries to wrap it around the whole thing. It's not helping.

He keeps bleeding.

_

* * *

I'm not special, either; only aware of the fact that I'm not. _

_I'll die as worthlessly as I was born. Just as my father before me, and his father before him._

_But somehow, thinking that, knowing that it's the very core of truth itself,_

_It makes my chest ache._

**

* * *

Disgusting.**

Maybe he won't get up this time. It certainly seems easier than standing.

**I hate them.**

His head is pounding.

Pounding like a roar, a wail. Over and over again, in sync with the beating of his heart.

Then he comes to realize that the sirens are screaming their death knells.

**I hate them all.**

Maybe he can't get up this time.

Certainly doesn't seem worth it.

Maybe there's a reason he's alone.

**It. Hurts.**

**I hate them. So much. It hurts.**

His head is falling in, he's sure. Thunder and collapse, that's all he can hear within that maelstrom of solemn warning signals. It's shuddering to a stop, dead on train tracks.

His heart is breaking to the thrum of glass falling to the floor a few rooms over.

_

* * *

Nothing changes._

_Certainly not me. _

_Only in the remnants of my dreams could I dare to hope of such atrocities._

_I'll always be alone._

* * *

You're a jerk, Cloud! Sheesh, that's why you have no friends. Somehow, I've managed to mix up my feelings on this chapter. First, it was supposed to be showing some more of Cloud's character; in the last chapters we've really only been exposed to one side of Cloud. Now we realize that Cloud kinda isn't that innocent in the asshole department. Yuffie was supposed to get a lot of sympathy, but then the school section ran away from me, and made me switch my thoughts on Cloud. Now we know that Cloud is a jerk, but also really vulnerable, so he's actually a jerk 'cause he's tired of people stomping all over him.

My question is, can you readers sympathize with Cloud? Can you see both sides if the coin and take it in as a whole? Hope so! I tried to pack some emotion into this so that those feelings could be conveyed. I hope it worked; kinda got distracted while writing this cause I was chatting with someone over something really funny, which kinda messed with my focus on the angst. Hope you guys catch the references from chapter one. This is a cycle; also, I just really like repetition of important lines or points in a story, makes it seem more meaningful somehow. Hope you guys see it that way, too, instead of just annoying.

Now we see: **Yuffie **plus **Cloud** equals **Crack**. **Cloud **plus **No One Else** equals **Angst Buckets**.

The equation has been solved. And, seriously guys, the chapters aren't SUPPOSED to be this long. Sorry!

Thanks to Kaikai PANTS, Anna-Sky Valentine Nox, and Filipina Shortaay for reviewing again, and within the same day of posting! Wow, you guys are amazing! Hope you guys like this chapter, even if it is a bit choppy.

I might not update for a week. I'm going to try and focus on writing a chapter for my two other stories, so sorry guys! But, if you're a fan of At a Walking Pace, you should be pretty happy. :)


	6. chimera vagary

**If You Don't Have a Smile**

Warnings: Alternate universe. Uh, more confusion? Blood and gore!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters found here in. They belong to their rightful owners. I am merely a humble Clouffie servant, trying to spread the unconventional love.

**

* * *

End 5**: CHIMERA VAGARY

_

* * *

They say humans, after only ten days without sleep, will become insane._

* * *

Cloud doesn't have a father.

He used to; the kind that when he came home would kiss his wife and hug his son like there was no tomorrow, like he actually missed them and was happy to be back. He'd bring presents and help around the house, play with little Cloudy and read bedtime stories. The best sort of father, if only for the fact that when he wasn't there, at least he was thinking of them.

When Cloud was seven, he had a nightmare. These days he can't really remember what it was, but in his heart, the imprint remains as a steadfast tattoo. When he couldn't get back to sleep after screaming for his mother, for someone to hold him, his father did so with the sort of countenance that expressed a lack of knowledge on what to do.

And so, to sooth the crying boy, his father recounted a little trick that he would use when things for him got especially hard; when the gunfire wouldn't cease and the enemies drew closer in an all-consuming horde. He said to take a breath and dream.

So Cloud dreams. He has long since realized the advice from his father is of ill-use in his position, but now it's like the mantra of his heart. First, he takes a little bead of thought, fresh-cut grass or a pebble in his shoe, and thinks bigger, expanding expanding expanding, until the world is a stone covered by moss, nestled snugly in the black-spackled white noise of sod in a field. The fireflies are dancing as kids skip rocks across a pond and break glass. Whoops. The ball went too far when he swung the bat. Mrs. Wilson will be furious, sitting atop her gilded couch, out of sight and out of mind as he flies kites in the winds of a hurricane.

And isn't it easy? His father would be so proud to know that Cloud no longer has nightmares. He merely dreams, and it is enough until the waking period.

_

* * *

What about humans who can't wake up?_

_Are they insane, too, without cognitive function to confirm their existence?_

* * *

He can't get up. It's too hard; he can't keep trying anymore.

He rests against the dented lockers, and licks idly at the blood dripping from his nose. It tastes a little like salt water.

He's not sure how long it is before he hears it, half-asleep as he is in his daydreaming. The distinctive scritch-scratch of shadows on cheap tiling. From the left, he envisions its encroaching form; can almost taste the pulse in the air, its breath. It reminds him of the beating of a heart, heavy and gasping. A deep inhalation, like a vacuum, a black hole; then an exhalation, wind through a crack in the door.

He strains his eyes, pushing past the swelling skin of his lids to squint at the side, where a presence more akin to a glacier than anything sniffs about. It's a funny-looking thing. Like an ant, with little antennas, staring at him, like…

A god. Like Cloud is the purpose of its existence. It climbs reverently onto his chest, settling as a block of ice; it's going to enjoy itself.

**What a little piece of shit.**

He stares it in its dead eyes as the tiny tines of its claws fumble on ripping slowly through the fabric of his dress-shirt. They're glass, so smooth and clear; he can see his reflection.

He shudders and convulses, the touch unbearable, the sight maddening. He wants to scream, so much, so much, but the audio cable's been ripped out, all sound sucked into the vacuum of the shadow's lungs, in and out again.

"Hey!"

It's like a gunshot, pointblank and sudden.

Bang.

The creature's gone. Cut in two, it arcs in hang time before dissolving, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

He can't breathe, can't think; the shadow might be gone, but it stole something before it went. A pair of bright blue eyes, luminous in their quality, stares down at him worriedly, shaking his shoulder, "You okay?"

He wants to say he isn't, has never been, really, but he can't; he lets the blood draining from his nose like a faucet fall onto the stranger's hand, lets it tell him what it is Cloud can never speak.

Another person comes into his line of sight, a girl, blurry to his unfocused vision, with beautiful green eyes. He wonders if they're angels, then throws the thought away; he knows one, and she could never be so heavenly.

Blue Eyes is shoved out of the way, gaining a kicked puppy look as the girl sits in front of him, muttering questions that she probably knows she won't get an answer to. He's cold.

She smiles at him, a little sadly, "This is all I can do for the time being. I'm so sorry."

She touches his chest, practically sighs out a word; a sweet wind, fields of summer, "Cure."

All at once the cold of oceans and snows dissipate, replaced with a terrible ache; skin stitching together, blood clotting into heavy scabs.

The girl smiles again, "I don't have enough left for this little one to be okay. There are still more people we need to help."

She rests her warm hand on his cheek, and he leans into the touch, breathing a gasp of relief.

"Aerith, we have to go! I can hear screaming!" the girl startles and is up on her feet, running after the spiky black hair of a boy he thinks he's seen before. She calls over her shoulder, "We'll come back for you!"

He closes his eyes, and breathes, in and out.

_

* * *

Or are they just dead?_

* * *

"Cloud…Cloud, wake up!"

Someone's shaking him. The voice is familiar; has that girl come back? He opens his eyes. No. It's Yuffie. She looks panicked, eyes swerving around like jittery purple bugs.

"C'mon, get up. We have to go. Now!" she tugs at his arm. He doesn't want to, not with her. She's trouble through and through. He's better off here, waiting for those two to come back for him. They promised.

"Cloud, c'mon c'mon! If we don't leave, if we don't leeeaave!" she's tugging, using all of her insubstantial weight, until finally he gives in and pushes himself up, leaning heavily on the lockers behind him. The lights to the school have gone out, and an eerie green permeates the air filtered in through the windows.

"We need to go, Cloud! I know it hurts, but, please—"

He starts moving, stumbling along. Yuffie, to his surprise, doesn't dart forward and surpass his ungainly strides, but props herself under his arm instead and helps him along. It's slow progress, but they're not far from the school's entrance. If they make it there, they can start for home; have more cover than in these open halls.

As they move, he manages to look out the windows; green clouds on rust-red. Day of shadows.

They're there. The school's entrance is comprised mostly of paneled glass, swinging double doors allowing students to pass in and out every day. There's nothing unusual about them, usually. Today, though, a trail of red has formed on the right door. A hand print, scraping fingers.

He tries not to think about it.

Instead, he tries to walk forward. Out and free, out and free. Yuffie remains stock-still, eyes darting around in a frenzy, looking, listening. She tightens her hold on him, turns him around, "No, not that way. We need to go, now. Now."

She keeps mumbling, 'now' hammering into his head like a curse. She turns them the way they came, pulling and tugging, but even then Cloud can't hold on. It hurts, and it looks like whatever that girl has done to him has worn off. His nose starts bleeding.

"Cloud! Cloud, please," she begs, kneeling by him as he sinks to his knees, "Please try!"

He gazes at her, takes in her disheveled state, scratches on her arms, dress tattered and torn. She looks like she's going to cry.

He pulls his arms around her; she understands and slides her fingers through the belt loops of his pants, pulling him up. His weight staggers her, but she begins to totter up, away away away.

Not fast enough.

A shadow, larger than anything he's ever seen, consumes the world outside, hazard green evaporating to all-encompassing black. Yuffie stops, unsure of what to do, tries to say anything, even as he is about to say something back.

The shadow punches past the thick, bullet-proof glass, arm disintegrating from the effort. The shards shoot like stars, not down but at.

Cloud is sure he is going to die, perhaps even before the spear-like sliver of glass enters his sights, before he has time to realize that its destined path is to pierce his chest.

**I'm going to die.**

**I'm going to die.**

**I'm going to die.**

**Am I okay with that?**

It hits, the sound of a knife ripping through skin and muscle and bone. Yuffie slumps down, knees splitting open as they skid across the debris-strewn floor. He falls with her, pulled by her weight. The large sliver protruding from her abdomen sticks through and pins her to the ground, a lewd needle.

Gravity pulls her along the rest of the glass' length until she rests on the floor, staring up at him with wide eyes, a little stunned. Surprise. What a twist. Who could have seen it coming?

She weakly grasps his hand. He's surprised, almost recoils as gore seeps past the webbing of his fingers. She opens her mouth, gags and coughs; her teeth are stained orange and a bead of saliva-soaked blood dribbles down her cheek, into her ear.

"To…the…," she stutters out, tries tightening her hold on his hand. He finds himself squeezing back. "To…t-the, church."

It's not like the movies. Her eyes don't close; no letting go of his hand; the release of a world-weary sigh. She just stops.

A hair-line crack creeps past the neck of her dress, spiders along her jugular to expand its web across her face. He watches it, unmindful of his surroundings, the monster looming outside, poised to strike, the shouts and cries of a battle unknown. It worms its way past her hairline.

She shatters, body falling apart into a thousand effervescent beads. They skitter away, falling through his fingers like sand, popping onto the ground and bursting into tiny pools of green.

He grasps at nothing, stares at nothing.

_

* * *

Is death really just dreaming?_

_Is it like a bubble of coalesced thoughts and intentions, the conscious mind trapped inside to deteriorate amongst the putrescence of regret and desire?_

_And when it finally pops, the quagmire dissolving to naught but idle birds, do you wake up to begin life anew as something completely different?_

* * *

He pulls himself up, staggers under the great weight of the world.

**Am I okay with this?**

He can't feel much of anything; it's all numb and empty spaces.

**Am I really okay with this?**

He walks to the gaping maw, once-entrance to hell, and exit into Pandaemonium. The monster is nowhere in sight, though there's still the echo of screaming. He doesn't dwell upon this, merely limping beyond the schoolyard, onto the sidewalk, down the road.

_Please try!_

He can't dream. There's no time for dreaming. The waking period is now, raw and painful in its clarity.

**I'll keep trying. Just for now.**

**And it'll be enough.**

_

* * *

Sometimes, I wish I could just sleep for days, lost in the dreams of my father and afternoons passed in pleasant waiting. _

_And other times, I can't help but carry on into the dark of night, unblinking; the sound of silence the only balm to my nightmarish visions._

_Maybe I am crazy._

* * *

Um, er…I plead the fifth.

Sorry for the long wait. And the really crappy chapter. I'm so sorry, please forgive me! I am experiencing the most terrible writer's block with this story. I pushed through this chapter, 'cause I figured you guys deserved at least something, but, with how it turned out, you guys might just wish I had waited for the writer's block to pass.

No, Yuffie! You guys might just want to kill me with what I did to her. Confused? Well, reading 'To Smile Through' will probably clear up a few things, and settle your minds. But there are also other things to still confuse you! Like, who were those two 'mysterious' people? Figure it out, or wait for the next chapter. What's up with the monsters? Wait for the next few chapters. Will Cloud ever stop being an emo-angst muffin? Wait for hell to freeze over.

There's a lot of repetition in this chapter, so yeah, please look at this chapter as a whole to receive full artistic impact (lolwhut?). Also, refer back to chapter three for a reference to the 'green clouds, rust-red skies.'

Thanks to all you lovely reviewers!: Kaikai PANTS, always-kh, SeeminglyAdorable, Filipina Shortaay. Also, thanks to everyone who faved and put this story on alert. :) Hope to hear from you guys again.


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